


Tevilah

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4342721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Bedelia Du Maurier Took A Bath</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tevilah

**Author's Note:**

> Tevilah is the Hebrew word for dipping or immersing, and is commonly used to refer to a ritual purification in water.
> 
> Written for x4hiles at Tumblr.

Night has come like an old friend, blocking out the horrors of the day with a cool wash of moonlight. She yearns for sleep, though waking nightmares have been coming to call.

Bedelia recalls her forensic pathology rotation: the smell of warm meat and decay, the shine of writhing maggots, lungs plump and spongy under her fingers. When performing the Rokitansky technique, the pathologist removes the organs in a large bloc from the tongue to the rectum, leaving the cadaver a hollow shell. She remembers her tentative hand grasping an esophagus, yanking the tongue out below the clavicles and peeling downwards. She had been appalled and fascinated by the ease with which a human can be scraped clean as an oyster.

Neal will be laid out that way now, split like a game bird for roasting, offal scooped out. But what a surprise it must have been, with no tongue to pull like the tab of a fleshy zipper. What must they have thought when they found it, dense and meaty in his airway.

She blinks away the image, sinking low into the hotel tub. She has washed herself like a rape victim, scrubbing with uncharacteristic roughness at her smooth skin, fingertips raw from being scoured with a stiff brush. Bedelia clipped her nails short after the police had scraped them, feeling phantom shreds of tissue beneath. She wanted to cut her hair right away, disliking the way it brushed her neck, sensitive on the spots Neal’s hands had branded. Instead Hannibal twisted it into a chignon, leaving a shaken ingénue with a bruised throat for the police to comfort.

She’d gazed at them tremulously through her fluttering lashes, eyes darting about as she spoke. She saw herself through a couple of tired cops: a small woman, frightened and lovely, blood staining the virgin white of her blouse. It had been almost too easy to guide them along, her steady voice smoothing out the primrose path they wanted so badly to follow.

“Baltimore is steeped in violent crime, Bedelia,” Hannibal had said, wiping her face as Neal cooled on the rug. “They will not want to waste time and resources going after a society psychiatrist who can afford to spend more on lawyers than they have budgeted for new police cars this decade.”

He was right, of course, but then he’d been the one who set it all into motion to begin with. He had played it all out beforehand, considering each move of his private game behind that disaffected veneer. She is certain of this, certain he had set Neal Frank loose on her to amuse himself. Bedelia lifts her dripping hands from the water, still awed that they have killed a man. She feels revulsion and a deep self-loathing, but also a sense of terrible power in having bested him.

Her vision slides out of focus, lost in the mosaic of tiles on the wall. Dreamily, she takes the sponge in her hands and begins, once more, to wash herself clean.

*****

Her dress hangs near her vanity, polished shoes beneath. She chose black as witches do. As nuns do, as widows. As women who renounce and withdraw and retreat always have.

Water laps at the side of her bath, splashing out onto the floor as she considers what lies ahead. She must be impeccable and certain. Her hair will be simple, her makeup light. She has spent days planning, but her stomach still churns with this morning’s toast and tea.

He will smell the fear on her, that she cannot help, but she has decided that the scent overlaying it will be clean. There will be no floral soaps or ambergris to make Hannibal think she is attempting to deceive him. She must face him as honestly as a penitent.

Bedelia works a shampoo of tea tree oil and mint into a lather, scalp tingling as she massages it into the roots. A soap of the same fragrance enervates her skin and she feels alert. Sharp.

Hannibal had not permitted her to leave him before, had called on the blood oath that bound them, but she will have none of it this time. He can play his clever games with someone less able - or less willing - to see him for what he is. She knows that he will kill her once she stops amusing him with her frank insights, and Bedelia is not one to overplay her hand.

Laser treatments have solved the nuisance of shaving, but she runs a hand over her legs out of habit. Bedelia takes pride in her appearance, her cornsilk hair and high breasts. There was a time, not comfortably long ago, when she thought Hannibal Lecter might complement her look quite nicely. She can’t be certain he hasn’t ruled it out as a pleasant diversion before murder.

Inscrutable son of a bitch.

Bedelia rinses herself with clean water, feeling purified. She goes through her little speech again, her final draft after many revisions. He will be a perfect gentleman about it, of course. Hannibal is always a perfect gentleman.

She hopes his face will not be the last thing that she sees.

*****

She owns 563 acres in the mountains of Milboro, Virginia. Most of it is forested, but dirt roads have been cut so that she can explore as she pleases. Often this is on horseback, but she rambles on foot as well, liking contact with the solemn gravity of the mountain beneath her. She comes here when she and the world have gone too long without one another.

Her wardrobe here is simple, her hair tied back and her face bare. In fair weather, Bedelia hangs her laundry on a line behind the summer kitchen. She eats apples from the root cellar, birds she’s shot herself. It is her play-house, her retreat, her enchanted castle. Her name is Delia Murray when she goes into town, when she calls the caretaker about some small detail.

There has been no sign of Hannibal, no sign of Jack. She gives little thought to her life in Baltimore, to the intrigue and mystery that clung to her. The house is closed up as it should be; she doesn’t entertain anymore. The charities on whose boards she sits have grown used to her absence at meetings, content now with generous checks.

Bedelia rises early, just as the earth begins to turn its face toward the sun. Next to her bed is a small wooden crate, which she tucks it under her arm before leaving through the French doors in her bedroom. She walks across the deck and down a small path leading to the stream.

She kneels on a large flat stone - a boulder, really - that juts out from the bank, watching the diamond clarity of the water. From her crate she removes a towel, a comb, a sea sponge, and a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s soap. She takes off her pajamas, the white cotton so gauzy she can see the grey of the rock right through them.

Naked now, she plunges into the stream and gasps as the aching cold slaps her awake. Bedelia forces herself to take steady breaths as she acclimates, treading water to warm up. She pours soap on the rough sponge, washing her hair and body as the forest begins to wake around her. The sun is fully up now, her world dappled in green and gold.

She swims lazily for a few minutes before hoisting herself back onto the boulder. It is already growing warm. She stretches out, head pillowed on the towel, hair spread behind her to dry, and closes her eyes.

Baltimore cannot touch her here.

*****

Hannibal was already home when she returned from her long walk through the city. She takes the same route each time, but rain delayed her this afternoon. It left Florence with a faint shimmer, but the cobblestones were slick and treacherous below their surface shine.

On the table is a tumble of ribbons and paper. He’s brought home a parcel from the Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, the air gorgeous with the scents of it. “I’ve drawn you a bath,” he says, taking her coat.

“Oh?” Her voice is mild, but her mind races. She notices now that his sleeves are rolled up. Is this a new game? She must ready herself for it, and quickly.

“I thought perhaps it would relax you after your walk today. You sometimes seem troubled when you return home.” His eyes are runestones, ancient and unreadable.

“Thank you,” she says, and offers him a smile. Bedelia turns her back to him and feels his gaze all the way down the hall.

The bathroom is half-lit by the corner lamp, by unscented beeswax candles that make the pale walls glow. Alone, she drops her guard and tries to imagine what he is up to. She breathes in the heady florals of his purchases, the ripe green notes of herbs, the heavy musks that tie it all together.

She doesn’t think he means to hurt her in here. It is too soon for him to be rid of her; Hannibal plays a very long game when he can. Bedelia watches herself in the silver-backed mirror as she undresses. Her blouse has full sleeves that gather tightly at the wrist, making her hands appear doll-like as she unbuttons it. She unfastens the cuffs, shrugging the navy silk away from her body. Her skirt is tweed, the color of almonds and chocolate, snug over her hips. She reaches around to unzip it, noting the way her breasts are pushed forward in their thin lace cups. Bedelia is particular about her lingerie, and has Carine Gilson confections imported from Brussels. There are certain concessions she is unwilling to make, even in exile.

Her skirt drops to the floor, lacy underthings falling like snowflakes on top. She casts her shoes aside, feet looking vulnerable on the cool tile. She examines her reflection objectively, seeing good bones and sleek proportions that make up for a lack of stature. Her belly is flat, waist quite narrow before flaring out to round hips. Candlelight glints at the honey-colored curls between her thighs. Bedelia, nearing fifty, is pleased with herself.

She feels like a white bird, plucked bare for the copper pot.

To the bath now, murky with oils and salts, atramentous in the dim room. Steam rises from the surface like early morning fog on the Arno. She lowers herself into water so silken, so gloriously soothing, that a groan escapes her. Her choices have not been easy but, in this moment, she can hardly say she would change them. She dips her head underwater to immerse fully in the experience, almost regretful when she rises for air.

“Bedelia,” he says from the doorway, and it does not startle her. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

He enters, ignoring her discarded clothing, though she is sure the disarray bothers him. Intimacy between them has been a strange dance. She sleeps in his bed, aware but unafraid because he would never be so base as to strike while she dreams. He fastens her dresses and clasps her necklaces. Hannibal often plays the harpsichord after dinner, his shirt unbuttoned, the Florentine sunset making free with the diaphanous fabrics she favors for evening.

Bedelia finds herself intrigued by the possibilities inherent in his presence now, and watches while he takes an enameled pitcher from the nearby table. It contains the Farmaceutica’s simple white bottles, stamped with the image that represents four hundred years of flawless craftsmanship.

“I hope you weren’t caught long in the rain,” he remarks, pouring a dollop of hair cream into his open palm.

“No,” she says, captivated, breathing the honey scent of it. “Not long. And the store will have my purchases sent later tonight.”

Hannibal moves behind her then, running his hands over her wet hair. His fingers, terribly strong and deft, work the cream from her scalp to the ends. She fights the impulse to make any noise of pleasure, any clue that he is eroding her tight control. It would disappoint him and she knows that the fragile bubble of her life is dependent upon his enchantment with her.

He gathers her hair at the nape of her neck, then drapes it over her shoulder for the rich cream to soak in. His touch moves to her slick shoulders, squeezing the tense muscles there. She exhales slowly through her nose as he kneads his thumbs into the upper trapezius, fingers fanned across her clavicles. It has been so long since anyone touched her this way.

“I am not making you uncomfortable, I hope,” he says, his mouth so close she can smell the Chateau d’Yquem on his warm breath.

“No,” she murmurs. “I am…quite comfortable.”

She is beyond comfortable. She feels voluptuous, liquescent, ready to invite him into the tub with her and drown them both in sensual decadence. If she were less wary she’d go to bed with him, having heard tales of his excessive connubial solicitude from Rachel DuBarry.

Instead, she inclines her head an inch and asks after his day.

“I found a small incunabulum you would enjoy,” he says, working on a small knot in her deltoid. “It has beautiful woodcuts, and shows the proper method for the expulsion of evil spirits from a possessed patient. I believe it was printed by Sixtus Rissinger, the first printer in Naples.”

Bedelia chuckles. “Perhaps it should have been required reading when we were in medical school.”

His hands are on the wings of her scapulae now, smoothing almond oil into her skin. She chances a glimpse in the mirror and nearly bites her lip. A man on his knees, intent, his shirt taut across his back and biceps as his arms move. She sees a woman with half-lidded eyes, her mouth slightly open with clear desire. What if the woman turned her imperious face, caught his full lips with her own?

But no, this is the game. There is no question that Hannibal will win, because those are the only games he plays, but she would like it to be a tie at least. Bedelia closes her mouth and opens her eyes, sits up a little straighter.

In the mirror, he smiles.

*****

She’d stumbled to the bathroom after Hannibal had taken her coat, tripping as she kicked her shoes aside, her clothes in tangled disarray as she’d torn them off. She vomited up oysters and Sancerre, acorns and Marsala.

Now she sits in the corner of the shower, knees drawn up, steamy water beating against her body. She opens her mouth to swallow some, rinsing the hot, sour taste of bile and acid from her tongue. She fears the splash of Dimmond’s blood must be seared on her face, indelible as Lady Macbeth’s gory hands. She believes it is deserved. It is possible that she is crying but she isn’t sure of much right now, only that she wants to be rid of the awful writhing thing inside her that harks to Hannibal’s call.

Footsteps, the bathroom door opening.

From her vantage point she sees his bare feet, the cuff of his pinstripe trousers as he walks towards the glassed-in shower. She closes her eyes, wishing him away like a monster under the bed. She turns her face to the smooth glass.

A rush of cool air when Hannibal opens the door.

“Bedelia,” he says, his voice kind over the falling water. “You’ve been in here for nearly an hour.”

She wraps her arms more tightly around her knees.

“You will survive this.” He enters the shower then, sits next to her on the floor.

Bedelia opens an eye, watching the way his drenched white shirt clings, the way the water moves along the fine wool of his trousers. His dripping hair hangs in his eyes, his lips half-parted like a truculent child. She takes in his cheekbones, his tapered fingers and his broad pectorals. His ghastly beauty makes her shudder.

Hannibal gently extends a hand. She is enraptured by the play of tendons beneath his skin, the raw life emanating from him. The water slows and shimmers as it falls, her face miniaturized in each droplet. Bedelia imagines them snapshots of alternate universes where some other self thrives, some other woman unbaptized in blood. She feels his touch on her shoulder first, then his arm sliding around her back. He draws her close, the wet heat of his body solid against hers as the water continues to rain down over them. He makes small noises as he strokes her face, perhaps soothing sounds from a time with Mischa, perhaps a charm to calm his prey. Perhaps both, as she suspects.

“You engineered this,” he murmurs, tracing endless circles on her back. “You cannot hide from your own creation.”

“I didn’t,” she gasps. “You invited him to your lecture, you kn-”

“I knew what you wanted,” he chides, his lips against her forehead. “And so did you. You stopped to pack a bag, Bedelia. You didn’t flee the city wearing only the couture on your back. You came here first.”

It’s true and she chokes on it, gagging again, collapsing forward with her head on his chest.

“Shhhh.” He strokes her hair. “It’s all right. But what now, hmmm?”

“I don’t understand,” she manages.

“You are no longer the woman who flew to Paris with me, Bedelia. I took care of the Fells out of sight. And Neal Frank was nothing, a tyro’s practice to check the stitching in your own person suit. I am afraid to say, Dr. du Maurier, that the stitching is looser than you may have hoped.”

Bedelia sits up, pushing her wet hair out of her face. “I am not like you.”

He touches her face with his pointer finger, running it down her nose to rest on her bottom lip. “But you could be if you let go of your antiquated notions of justice. God kills indiscriminately, does he not? You could be at peace, Bedelia. Like me.”

She begins to shake her head when the needle pierces her flesh. She gasps, the world dipping sideways before her eyes roll back. She feels herself rising, legs draped over Hannibal’s arm, head lolling back as he cradles her.

“No…” she mumbles, arms pushing at him feebly as he turns off the water and exits the shower.

He carries her to the bedroom where, through the haze, she sees an amethyst-colored dressing gown on the bed. Hannibal places her next to it, and she is loose-limbed and heavy tongued. He changes his clothes quickly before returning his attention to her.

“Please,” she tries again, struggling to stand. She is sure she has somewhere to be, if only she could remember. “My bag…”

“You’re in no condition just now,” he tuts, toweling her hair, her skin. “And there is someone for you to see. You mustn’t leave, it would be rude.” Hannibal slides the dressing gown over her arms, gently, keeping her fingers from snagging the lace. He hooks the tiny closures below her breasts before knotting the sash. He slips a pair of satin mules on her feet.

“You are quite beautiful,” he says fondly, as though she were a prize bitch or first-place rosebush. “Now come with me, please. There is someone waiting for you.”

Hannibal helps her stand, his mien deferential as she leans on his arm. They walk slowly through a swirling hallway to the living room. Bedelia blinks, everything running together like chalk drawings in the rain. The frescoed ceiling wavers, angels gamboling above her in dizzy spirals that leave trails of light.

He settles her in a brocade chair, arranging folds of fabric over her legs. She curls her toes to keep the shoes from slipping off. Next to her, on the occasional table, are two syringes. Her brow furrows; she can’t recall why they trouble her, and she looks away.

On her hand a diamond sparkles, and she pauses to admire the way it makes rainbow fractals on the wall. She hardly notices the pinch when a needle breaks the skin of her upper arm through the robe.

Her vision narrows to a pinprick of light, then the tunnel vision widens to re-encompass the room around her.

“You’re not still planning to go, are you?” comes a man’s voice. “You’ll be staying here, I hope.”

Her bag is still by the door; why had she ever planned to leave, my goodness but their suite of rooms is exquisite! She feels fortunate to be in this city, to be admired and catered to in sybaritic splendor. She gazes up at her husband through her lashes and he smiles. But then he turns his head away to direct her attention elsewhere.

Across from her, in the wing-backed chair, sits a young man. His gaze is fixed and starting to cloud, head lolling grotesquely to the side. Rigor has not yet set in.

“You remember Anthony Dimmond, don’t you?”

It is rude to try and seduce a man and his wife on your first visit, she thinks, but her manners are better than Anthony’s. Besides, he is quite dead now and she can afford to be gracious. “Hello, Anthony,” she says. “We met earlier. I’m Lydia Fell.”

 


End file.
